‘I’ll send for her.’

‘Nay,’ said the Queen. ‘That’s not good enough. I shall go to Castile and bring her myself.’

‘You … you are capable of the journey?’

‘The day I am not capable of doing what I know must be done to hold the throne for my son, I shall be ready to be laid in my tomb. That day is not yet. I shall prepare for the journey at once.’ Her eyes shone with pleasure. ‘I shall be happy indeed to see your sister Eleanor. It is so rarely that I see my children, and then briefly.’

‘The journey will be arduous.’

‘My son, my life has been made up of arduous journeys.’

Eleanor was as good as her word. She made immediate preparations to leave for Castile and soon she was on her way.


John was pleased with himself. He knew that people had compared him with his brother Richard and whispered that he lacked his skill to rule. They should see. Hadn’t he already made a treaty with the King of France? Hadn’t he got an admission from him that he was Arthur’s overlord?

Now was the time for enjoyment and what better than the chase?

He gathered together his intimate friends – young men daring like himself, who applauded everything he did and made him feel that he was indeed the King. It was good to ride out in new forests and, after Eleanor had left, he spent days in hunting on his way north to Normandy. Like his ancestors, he loved the chase and to be in at the kill and to see a panting animal at bay gave him a pleasure so intense that it could only be rivalled by seeing human beings in a similar state of terror.

He was riding ahead with a party in the forests between La Marche and the Angoumois when he countered a party coming in the opposite direction. At their head was a very young girl. She could not have been more than thirteen years old, but as he looked at her something happened to John which had never happened before. That she was the most beautiful girl he had ever seen occurred to him immediately as it must to everyone else; but she had more than beauty. She was dainty, imperious, mischievous … all in the most beguiling manner, and he had an intense desire to seize her and carry her off.

He called a halt and the riders came up to him.

‘Tell me,’ he cried, ‘where do you come from and who are you?’

The young man who was riding beside the fascinating young girl replied: ‘I am Hugh de Lusignan, son of the Count of La Marche, and I might well ask what you are doing in my father’s territory?’

‘My good fellow,’ said John, angry lights leaping into his eyes, ‘I tell you this: you may be the son of the Count of La Marche and call this land yours. I am the Duke of Aquitaine under whom you hold this land. It would be well for you to remember it.’

The young man leaped from his horse and bowed low to John, whose good temper was restored.

‘Come, come,’ he said, ‘’twas a mistake easy made. Who is this lady whom you escort?’

‘She is my betrothed, my lord. Isabella, daughter of the Count of Angoulême, who is being brought up in my brother’s household.’

‘Charming,’ said John. ‘Charming, charming. The son of the Count of La Marche, you say. Well, a merry day to you.’

With that he nodded and rode on. His friends were astonished. They had seen the familiar look in his eyes as he had surveyed the girl and had expected him to take some action. It would not have surprised them if they had beaten off her protectors and abducted her.

He was thoughtful – unusually so – and it was clear that he was thinking of the young girl.

When one of them spoke to him, he did not answer. Instead he murmured: ‘The Count of La Marche. How many years think you before that marriage takes place?’

‘The girl is very young, my lord. ’Twould have to be two years at least.’

‘If it ever does take place,’ said John with a smile.

He couldn’t get her out of his mind. He dreamed of her. It was ridiculous, for she was only a child. She had looked at him in an odd way, too. There was nothing childish about that. Perhaps she was overawed, for she would know he was not only her father’s suzerain but King of England.

Why couldn’t he stop thinking of her? He could see her face clearly – that thick curling hair about the oval contours and the expression in those wonderful eyes that was half innocence, half knowledge. What an intriguing girl.

His instinct was to carry her off and seduce her without delay. Rape if necessary. Would it have been necessary?

But the daughter of the Count of Angoulême, the betrothed of the son of the Count of La Marche, could not be treated like a peasant. The Lusignans were a powerful family. They could raise the whole of Aquitaine against him, because the people didn’t want him, and he knew it. They accepted his mother joyfully because she was one of them. Hadn’t she been brought up there as the heiress of Aquitaine? But they had hated her husband and her sons. Richard had had to fight incessantly to hold that rebellious land. Much as he deplored the fact that he had not seized the girl, John knew very well that he had been wise not to.

He kept thinking about her. No woman could satisfy him now. Always he would see the lovely haunting face of the fairylike child in the forest.


He could not forget Isabella of Angoulême and it occurred to him that if he had not already a wife he might have made a match with Isabella. There was some grounds for it. After all, the Count of Angoulême would surely be pleased to see his daughter Queen of England; and such an alliance would no doubt change the antagonism of Aquitaine towards him. Of course Isabella was already affianced to one of the Lusignans and the Lusignans were a great fighting family. They wouldn’t be pleased, but one cannot please everybody all the time.

The more he thought of Isabella the more he was determined to marry her, for he realised that he could not abduct her and carry her away and keep her with him while she pleased him as though she were a girl with no important family; and he would never really enjoy sexual encounters with other women until he had satisfied his desire for this one.

There was only one way of getting Isabella and that was through marriage.

True, he had been married for the last ten years, since just before Richard’s coronation he had taken Hadwisa of Gloucester as his bride in order to possess himself of her rich lands. That he had done to his satisfaction and they had made him a wealthy man. It was long since he had seen Hadwisa; she loathed him and that had been the only attraction he had found in her, and he had had a certain amount of pleasure in inflicting his attentions on her only for that reason. Had she wanted him he would never have gone to her. But as she grew older and knew him better she steeled herself against her revulsion and that did not please him. She, however, achieved her wish, for he had rarely seen her during the last five years.

But a king must consider his successors. He did not want to be like Richard and leave no one to follow him. He wanted a son and delicious little Isabella should provide him – once he had rid himself of Hadwisa.

How? He could have her poisoned. No, better not. It would look suspicious if he married Isabella immediately afterwards and he wanted no delay in his marriage. After all he and Hadwisa were cousins and she had been very worried about the connection and tried to prevent the consummation of their marriage in the beginning.

The simplest way was a divorce. Or perhaps even that was not necessary. He would bring up the old charge of consanguinity. That should not be difficult because after all there was a strong relationship between them through Henry I who was the great-grandfather of them both – although Hadwisa came down through the illegitimate line – for his grandmother, Matilda, and Hadwisa’s grandfather, Robert of Gloucester, had been half-brother and sister. It was a strong blood tie and therefore it should be comparatively easy to dissolve the marriage.

None of his ministers would dare deny him a divorce. The Pope might be awkward, though, as he was being over the marriage of Philip of France. But if Hadwisa agreed, it should not be difficult. Then he would be free … free for Isabella …

As soon as he returned to England he rode to Marlborough Castle where Hadwisa lived.

She came down to the courtyard to greet him in the customary manner and to offer him the stirrup cup which he always made her drink first in case she had it in mind to poison him. Not that he really feared that. Hadwisa had no spirit; but one could never be sure with the quiet ones.

‘Ah, Hadwisa,’ he cried. ‘I trust I see you well.’

She drank from the cup without his pressing her to do so and handed it to him. He drank it and threw it from him. It clattered on to the cobbles as he leaped from his horse.

‘Come, Hadwisa. I have much to say to you.’

He slipped his arm through hers and was amused to feel her tremble. Did she think he had come to stay and spend the night with her? She was more repulsive than ever now that he compared her with Isabella. But he could still enjoy letting her fear what might be in store for her.

It might be amusing to torment her just once more. No, better not. What if he got her with child? He didn’t want that complication now. One of his excuses for ridding himself of her was going to be that she was barren and it was a king’s duty to get sons.

All the same he led the way to her bedchamber and waited a while for her to try to calm herself, to pretend that she was not fearful of what ordeal lay before her.

But he was too impatient for Isabella to enjoy plaguing Hadwisa. His one great desire now was to be rid of her.